


(I’m Begging You To) Keep On Haunting Me

by nothingwithoutyouxo



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Tragedy, Ghosts, M/M, Moritz is literally a ghost and Wendla is also dead I'm so sorry, Post-Canon, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27060451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingwithoutyouxo/pseuds/nothingwithoutyouxo
Summary: When Melchior started seeing Him, it somehow made everything worse. He knew that it wasn’t real, that it couldn’t have been. It had to have been his brain playing tricks on him. It was the grief. He was sure that he’d read about it somewhere. Even so, it still left him feeling so shaken. Part of him so desperately wanted it to be real. He wanted his best friend back more than anything in the world. Deep down he was sure that was all he’d wanted for months, but if he was seeing ghosts that must have meant that he was going insane and he didn’t want to be shipped off somewhere else to have that dealt with. So he went to the one person he could think of that would understand, who maybe even knew what this felt like.
Relationships: Melchior Gabor/Ilse Neumann, Melchior Gabor/Moritz Stiefel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	(I’m Begging You To) Keep On Haunting Me

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is essentially a post-canon Melchior character study that I've been working on for .... years (like since 2018 lmao). I was re-reading fragments of the play yesterday and crying as one does and I just felt like I needed to post this for whatever reason. This is like a mixture of play-canon, musical-canon, and my own spin on things. Not sure what anyone can take from it, but it's something I've been wanting to write for ages. Trigger warnings for mentions of the events of the show naturally. Stay safe if you read.
> 
> Title is from Haunting by Halsey, which slaps to this day.

It started happening about a week after he’d showed up on his parents doorstep and begged to come back. They’d taken him back in, after a mess of fights and his mother standing up for him more than he knew he deserved. It rained for the better part of the week and Melchior curled up in his bed and refused to move for most of it, the grief a heavy weight against his chest. If it wasn’t for his mother prompting him to eat every day he was sure that he would have rotted away. Melchior wasn’t sure if he’d rather that have been the case or not. 

Eventually he was encouraged to go outside. He needed to see the sky, feel the sun on his skin. This was all supposed to be good for him. Melchior hadn’t felt _good_ in months, but he agreed. He assisted his mother on shopping trips and errands and tried to pretend that he couldn’t feel eyes on him. He knew that he shouldn’t have come back, but he hadn’t known what else to do. He hadn’t had anywhere else to go.

When Melchior started seeing _him_ , it somehow made everything worse. He knew that it wasn’t real, that it couldn’t have been. It had to have been his brain playing tricks on him. It was the grief. He was sure that he’d read about it somewhere. Even so, it still left him feeling so shaken. Part of him so desperately wanted it to be real. He wanted his best friend back more than anything in the world. Deep down he was sure that was all he’d wanted for months, but if he was seeing ghosts that must have meant that he was going insane and he didn’t want to be shipped off somewhere else to have that dealt with. So he went to the one person he could think of that would understand, who maybe even knew what this felt like. 

Ilse hadn’t quite stayed in one place since he’d come back. From what he heard, she’d been taking turns staying with her friends. The girls and Ernst had all taken her in at some point. Even Wendla’s mother had for a time. Melchior supposed that Ilse might have reminded her of her daughter just a little. He would have offered to help her, but he was sure that his parents couldn’t handle another child when he was already a burden on them to begin with. He hadn’t seen her all that much, and he’d spoken to her even less, so when he managed to track her down in the forest, near where they all used to play when they were younger, he was practically shaking with nerves. He was sure that it didn’t help the insane case at all. 

She was sitting in the grass, weaving flowers into something that he wasn’t quite sure of but he sat down next to her and waited for her to look up at him. She smiled when her eyes landed on him, and he felt his heart drop even more.

“Tell me that you can see him,” he said, because he couldn’t hide his desperation from her. She knew him too well, even after all this time.

She looked at him for a long moment, studying him, her head tilted slightly to one side. He wondered what she was thinking. “See who?” she asked.

He looked away from her, squeezing his eyes shut. He’d barely said the name at all since his death. Even just thinking about it was starting to make him sick. “Moritz.”

She paused, placed a hand on his knee and he knew that she was trying to reassure him but it wasn’t helping. “Melchi, Moritz is -”

“I know!” She startled at that and he rushed to apologise. “Sorry, I - I know but I … I can still see him.” 

“Melchi -”

He wasn’t sure how he could make her understand how haunting this was. Really he was just looking for reassurance. “Please, Ilse. Just - just tell me I’m not going crazy.”

Ilse moved her hand away and started weaving her flowers again in one long, slow motion, somehow managing to never take her eyes off him. “I can’t see him,” she muttered.

Melchior wanted to throw up. He wasn’t even sure why he’d asked anymore. Of course she couldn’t see Moritz. Moritz was dead. Moritz had been dead for months now and just because he couldn’t seem to get over it didn’t mean he should try and drop this responsibility onto someone else. Ilse had been nothing but kind to him in all this time. Kindness that he hadn’t earned in any way. He clenched his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms and hoping that it would help keep him grounded, because he could feel himself drifting.

“But I can see Wendla.”

The words sent a shock wave down his spine and his head snapped up, eyes locking onto her. “You can?”

She nodded.

“Why? Why would that - _how_ could that happen?”

Ilse looked at him for a long time before answering. It felt like years. He wondered if she somehow had it all figured out, but that wasn’t the case. “I don’t know,” she said, and he could tell just by the look in her eyes that she wished she did. “I really don’t.”

He swallowed and wished that he could accept that. That he could settle, but he couldn’t remember the last time that he could do that. She looked away from him, focusing on her flowers again. He watched her hands for a moment, mesmerised by how easily she worked. “What are you making?” he asked.

“A flower crown,” she replied, smiling softly. “Wendla used to make them. She was always picking flowers so she could build them.”

His memories came back in flashes. Of course, Ilse was right, Wendla was always carrying baskets of flowers. She’d been out picking them when they’d first … talked all those months ago. “She used to make them when we were little too, didn’t she?”

“Mhm. She loved them. Flowers and crafts. They were her favourite.”

He could remember it now, so clearly. Little Wendla, no more than seven years old, walking with them to the stream to pick flowers and weaving them into crowns. She made one for Moritz once. He could see it, the careful pattern of flowers. The way he’d laughed when she’d steadied it in his hair. He looked over at Ilse again. 

“Can you teach me?”

***

Ultimately, he decided that he needed to get out of the house more. Maybe his mother was right, he needed to be outside. He must have needed more fresh air. To be out in the world, living and breathing. He spent a lot of his time with Ilse. They were often in the forest amongst the trees, or by the steam. She practically blended into the nature around them. 

Sometimes the two of them would make things, threading flowers and wood together so intricately that they became one being again. He was never as good at them as she was, didn’t have the careful precision of movement that she always did, but she was patient with him and just the act of building something was calming within itself. 

There were days when the two of them would just lie in the grass instead. The trees leading up into the sky where there were patterns in the clouds. Sometimes they wouldn’t even speak at all, just trace shapes above them and somehow that was enough. That was its own form of communication. 

To Melchior, it didn’t even matter what they did, he was just grateful for her company. Ilse was the only person that he actively sought out. There was still a part of him that was sure she was the only person who would so much as speak to him, besides his parents (though some days his father didn’t look at him at all). He hadn’t seen any of his old friends since he’d returned. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he did. There was a strong possibility that he was too scared to find out. It was something that might have been better left unknown. That way at least he had positive memories to reflect on, not more that were soured by his own stupid words and actions. 

Whenever the two of them were near the stream, it felt unusual to him. Even if Ilse wasn’t there and he was alone, there was something different about it. Something almost off. There was a strange energy to the place. He wasn’t usually one to pick up on something like that, but maybe that was Ilse’s influence. Maybe he could sense things now. All he knew was that it wasn’t the way that it should have been, or the way he remembered it. 

Ilse told him that she knew what it was once. He hadn’t entirely registered bringing it up. Maybe it wasn’t something he’d said with words, and yet she’d just known it was on his mind. They’d been lying in the grass at the time. There were no clouds in the sky that day but they were still gazing up at the pastel blue as if it had the answers they needed. 

“It’s him,” she’d said, as a light breeze filtered through the grass around them, tousling their hair as it did so.

She hadn’t needed to elaborate on who she meant. Melchior could already feel that she was right. 

“This was the last place that he was, Melchi. You’re tied here.”

“Tied how?”

When he looked over at her, out of the corner of his eye, he’d noticed that she was smiling. It was her usual smile, sad and with just a tinge of guilt. “When you lose something you always look for it,” she explained. “Especially when you’re sure you know where it is.”

This was one of the reasons he liked Ilse so much. Even in her own cryptic way, to him she made complete sense. “I wish I could find him,” he said.

“One day you won’t have to look.”

He had no way of knowing if she’d realised it at the time, but it was something that he thought about constantly. There was a part of him that hoped she was right. Maybe that was the craziness that he was almost worried was starting to settle in. What mattered was that he could feel Moritz somehow. He could feel him in the sound of the water running, the constant weight to the air around him, the sunlight filtering through storm clouds on a particularly dark day. He knew that Moritz was there, in his own way. Melchior had no idea when he started hoping that he’d see ghosts, instead of being fearful of it.

***

“You look far more melancholic today than usual. It’s unlike you.”

Melchior felt a chill go up his spine just at the sound of the voice. Even though he hadn’t heard it in months, it was still the most comforting sound to him. He opened his eyes, sitting up in the grass and scanning the area quickly until he saw him. “You’re here.”

Moritz smiled, just a little. “I’m always here.”

He looked almost the same as he made his way over. There was still a little limp in his walk from when he’d broken his ankle when they were four. He looked just as tired as he always did, though the bags under his eyes did seem to be lighter than usual. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, shirt half untucked, jacket somehow slightly crooked. The only difference was his hair wasn’t as messy as usual. It was far too neat. It didn’t look like he’d just jumped out of bed and sprung out here as would have been the case had Moritz been -

He wondered if Moritz had the power to read his mind now, because just as he came to sit by him, he ran a hand through his hair, effectively messing it up again. If Moritz knew his thoughts then he must have known that Melchior had wanted to do that for him.

“Is that better?” he asked. “More in line with how you see me?”

Melchior looked at him for a moment, still taking him in. “I’ve always seen you how you are,” he said.

“Have you?”

He had no idea what to say to that. He faltered for a moment. He guessed that if that was true then he would have known what Moritz was going through. That he was going to -

“You can talk?” he muttered, ignoring how strained his voice was now. He tried to push the thoughts away but it wasn’t something that came easy to him, the guilt eating at him. 

Moritz nodded. “Only to you.”

“Why only me?”

When Moritz met his eyes he could tell that there was so much that he wanted to tell him, and so much that he couldn’t say. “So many questions. I don’t have the answers for you, Melchi.”

Melchior could tell there was more to that, but he was immediately distracted by the nickname and how it felt to hear Moritz say it. Almost like a stab to the chest because he’d been so sure he’d never hear it again. Immediately he felt the urge to reach out and squeeze Moritz’s shoulder. It was something that the two of them always did to show some level of affection. The only level they were really allowed. 

“I’m not here in a physical form.” 

The words cut through him harder than he’d expected them to.

“So you can’t touch me.”

“How are you reading my mind?”

Moritz smiled. “I’m not. I just know you.”

Melchior had no idea why that wasn’t reassuring in the way that it had been _before_. “What does that make you? Are you just in my head then?”

“Wouldn’t that be a dream?” His smile fell, and he shook his head. “No, I’m just a spirit, Melchi. I’m like a ghost.”

“Are you real?”

“I’m as real as I can be to you.”

He wasn’t sure if he knew what that meant. His hand flexed at his side and he sighed because there was nothing he could do with it.

Moritz looked down at it for a moment and then back up at him. He looked sadder than he had this whole time. “I know.”

***

“I think I loved him.”

For a long moment she didn’t say anything. Melchior was worried that she was judging him, that she was going to tell him how stupid that was to admit, especially now. Ilse looked over at him, the hint of a smile staining her features. “I know you did.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that, but words seemed to find their own way. “I don’t think I should have. I don’t - I think it was wrong.” It hurt to think about. That’s what he knew. It always hurt to think about. He wondered what would have happened if he’d realized earlier. If he’d noticed _before_. 

Ilse shook her head and it was almost enough to ground him. “If it didn’t feel wrong to you then it wasn’t wrong, Melchi.”

He wished he could believe her, but it was eating at him. The guilt. Always so much guilt. And love. If that’s what this was. Was it supposed to hurt like this? “Ilse, I don’t know how to stop. He’s gone but I - I can’t -”

“I don’t think you have to stop. I think it’s ok if it’s always like that.”

Melchior watched as Ilse turned away again. She trailed her fingers above her, tracing the clouds in the sky. It was such a simple gesture, relaxed in a way that he never seemed able to be. “I miss him,” he said, and wondered if it would always feel this empty. It wasn’t something he could ever say to anyone but her. 

Ilse nodded, her finger stopped in the sky for just a second. “I miss him too. Everyday.”

Maybe that helped. Maybe not as much as he wanted it to. Ilse didn’t feel the same way about Moritz that he did. Somehow that was something he could tell. “Do you miss Wendla?” he asked, because Wendla was the person that she loved. Maybe they were both doomed. 

“Of course.” She dropped her hand and looked over at him again. “Do you?”

Melchior wasn’t sure if it was the right time for this, but with his heart twisting painfully in his chest it didn’t seem to matter. “Ilse, there’s - there’s something I haven’t told you. Something that I did -”

“I know,” she cut him off. “She told me.”

Wendla told her? That made him feel worse. “I wish I could take it back. More than anything. Can you tell her that?”

Ilse looked at him for a moment. He watched as her eyes studied him and wondered what she was thinking, what she was looking for. “I don’t have to. You didn’t know, Melchi.”

That wasn’t the right answer. He didn’t get the benefit of that excuse. “I should have.”

“But you didn’t. How could you?”

Because he was supposed to. That’s what he always did. He was supposed to be the one who knew things. Why wasn’t he that when it mattered? “I don’t - I don’t think I’ve ever known anything. Not really.”

“That’s not true. You know a lot of things.”

“But what does it matter if I hurt people?”

Ilse paused for a moment. The air felt stale around them. She shifted, sitting up and crossing her legs underneath her. She pulled absently at the grass and it was something that reminded him of Moritz. He felt that twisting in his stomach again, that pang in his chest for something that would never come back. “Did you love her?” she asked.

Melchior squeezed his eyes shut. This was all too much. “Not like you do.” Not like he was supposed to. At least he hadn’t made the mistake of lying to Wendla about that. They’d never said those words. Maybe she’d already known that he wouldn’t have meant them.

“But did you?”

He felt sick. “Of course I did. She was my friend.”

Ilse gazed down at him. This Melchior was so different to the one she’d known when they were little, or the one she’d known just a year ago. She could see how much this hurt him, how it ate away at him. How he’d never forgive himself for any of it. “She loved you too,” she muttered, thinking that maybe it would help. “Differently. In her own way.”

“Ilse, is she here? Right now?”

She nodded as Melchior opened his eyes again. “She’s always here.” She could feel Wendla’s energy all around them. All the time. 

He locked eyes with her for a moment and llse could tell that he was minutes away from crying. That he was trying to fight it off like he always did. He closed his eyes again for a moment and took a deep breath. “Wendla, I don’t know if you can hear me too but I’m so sorry.”

A breeze picked up within the grass, trailing its way over to them and brushing passed Melchior’s cheek. Gentle, almost like a kiss. Ilse smiled faintly. Melchior swallowed and clenched his jaw.

“She heard you,” she said, even if she didn’t need to. 

“Thank you.”

***

It was almost serenity, the two of them sitting in the grass by the river. Melchior hadn’t really seen Moritz anywhere else except for fleeting moments when he’d thought he was going crazy. He wondered if he’d ever be able to interact with Moritz in other places, or if it was just here where the two of them were tethered. Just like Ilse had said. Maybe that wasn’t something that would work in his favour. Melchior was pretty sure that his whole town hated him. Surely being seen talking to nothing wouldn’t help with that. No, this was something that he could have to himself. Or at least something he’d only really share with Ilse. 

He often found it difficult now to tear his eyes away from Moritz when they were together. Melchior wasn’t sure if it was something that he noticed. It definitely wasn’t something they ever spoke about, but ever since he’d realised that he loved his best friend, Melchior was starting to come to peace with it. It still stabbed him a million times over, but the more he thought about it, the less haunting the idea was, and the more calming it seemed. The more right it seemed. True and real and all the things that he’d never thought would happen to him. Things that would still never happen to him. Not now. 

At night when it was dark and he was alone, he’d tear himself up about it. About not realising sooner, or thinking about it at all. About deflecting onto Wendla, because that must have been what he was doing. It made sense. What he had with Wendla wasn’t something he could have had with Moritz. At least, he didn’t think he could have. As he gazed over at Moritz now the only thing on his mind was _if only_. 

Moritz mustn’t have been able to read his thoughts today. He’d barely spoken at all. Instead, he seemed content to pull at the grass at his feet, eyes always away from Melchior. It wasn’t until Melchior noticed that the grass was actually coming out in little tufts, like it would when they were kids, as if Moritz was real, that something occurred to him. 

“How can you do that?” he asked before he could stop himself. 

Moritz looked up at him, his hand pausing in its tracks. “Do what?”

Melchior wondered if he’d ever get over the sound of Moritz’s voice. At least he still had that. He tilted his head, trying to indicate the grass. “You’re pulling it,” he explained. “How can you?”

“Oh,” Moritz looked down, hand clenching and unclenching. “Grass and flowers, and, uh, trees and stuff I can touch.They’re not living.”

He looked at him, watched as Moritz pulled out another tuft as if to prove his point. But it didn’t make sense. “Plants are living,” he muttered. He was sure of it. They’d learned it in a class at some point or he’d read about it somewhere. 

“They don’t have a heartbeat,” he clarified, rubbing his hands against his knees, as if to rid them of the grass that hadn’t stuck to him at all. “I can’t touch animals or, um, humans, but plants are different so I can touch those.”

Melchior watched Moritz avoid his eyes for a moment longer. There was something pulling at him, a question that he was almost too embarrassed to ask. He wondered if it gave too much away. Would that even matter now? “Is that why I can’t - hug you. Or anything?”

When Moritz glanced up at him, he seemed almost amused by that. Melchior had no idea why. “You’re upset because you can’t … touch me?” 

He swallowed. The way Moritz said it made him anxious. It was weird, too weird. He shouldn’t have asked. “I -”

“It’s funny,” he continued, his voice not much louder than a whisper but instantly capturing Melchior’s attention. “I used to want you to.”

Melchior startled at that. Wait was that - Did Moritz …? No. There was no way. This couldn’t be real. “You wanted me to touch you?” he asked, and wondered if Moritz could tell he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying.

Moritz shifted uncomfortably. His hand moved as if to pull at the grass again but then stopped and he twisted his hands together in his lap instead. Melchior wished more than anything that he could tell what he was thinking.

He thought his next words over. His throat had gone dry and he needed to breathe again. He couldn’t take his eyes off the boy next to him. “Moritz, you could have … asked me to?” He hadn’t meant for it to be a question, but it sort of came out that way.

Moritz bristled, jolting up in his spot, his eyes latched onto Melchior. “Asked you to what? Melchi, I didn’t want - I didn’t know what I wanted from you. How could I have asked for something I had no idea of?”

His next words were leaving him without a second thought. “I would have done it.”

“Done what?”

Melchior watched him carefully. Moritz had seized up, curling in on himself. His eyes were wide and he seemed panicked. Melchior almost bit his tongue and dropped the topic, but he wasn’t sure if he could now. “Whatever you wanted,” he said, treading carefully. “I could have … kissed you at least. I would have.”

He couldn’t tell if Moritz was more frightened or upset by that. “You would have laughed at me, Melchi. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t have.”

His eyes immediately fell to the ground. _Idiot_ , he thought. _You’ve messed this up_. “Is that how you saw me?”

When Moritz didn’t say anything, Melchior looked up at him again. Concern eating at him, and shame. Something that he’d tried to disregard so frequently _before_. Now it was weighing on him. He watched as Moritz stared down at his hands with an incredible intensity, and realised that he seemed like he was about to cry. Maybe that wasn’t something he could do anymore. 

Melchior was reaching for his shoulder before he could register the movement, overwhelmed with the need to offer Moritz some comfort. To calm him down and let him know he was right there with him. He should have realised that it wasn’t going to work. Melchior’s hand didn’t land on Moritz’s shoulder, it couldn’t have, it just ran straight through it instead. “Damn it,” he cursed, an edge to his voice, frustration that was aimed at himself. For causing all of this and never being able to fix anything.

He could feel Moritz’s eyes on him, but continued to stare down at his hand as if it had somehow betrayed him. “I’m sorry,” Moritz said, and Melchior was hit with the sudden realisation that he was apologising because he felt like he was at fault.

Melchior looked up to meet his eyes. He wished there was a way to verbalise the fact that he regretted everything, but he wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to find the words. “You couldn’t feel that at all?” he asked instead.

Moritz shook his head. “Could you?”

Melchior paused, looked down at his hand again for a moment. “Just felt … cold.”

“Cold?”

“Yeah. Like ice. Or, like snow.”

When Melchior looked up again, he noticed that Moritz was smiling. It wasn’t quite his normal smile, and the sight of it made him a little uneasy. “Of course,” he said. Before Melchior could say anything else he continued, “I died in the snow.”

“Oh.” Melchior wished more than anything that he could hold him. 

***

“Sometimes I wonder why you don’t hate me,” Melchior muttered, watching as Ilse weaved together a basket that looked suspiciously like the one Wendla used to have. He was trying not to think too hard about it, or the flowers that she’d always kept tucked away inside.

Ilse didn’t look up at him, her fingers continuing with their careful movements, over and under. “You’re the only person I have left, Melchi,” she said. “I couldn’t hate you if I tried.”

He was struck by that immediately, because she was right, and there was nothing sadder than that fact. Even though Melchior had to beg his parents to take him back, they still did. He still had parents to come home to, Ilse didn’t have that luxury. She didn’t have parents, she didn’t even have friends if that’s what you considered the people she’d met in the artist’s colony. She didn’t have people looking out for her. She was all alone. It wasn’t something that he’d ever seen, not like this. Having a family was a privilege that he didn’t realise was one. Losing Wendla and Moritz was losing Ilse’s family. 

Melchior knew that he shouldn’t push, not at a moment like this, but he felt like he had to. “I had what you wanted with the person you love and I ruined it,” he explained, because that was more than a good enough reason. He’d done far too much to still deserve her company, and yet she was always one to give it freely. 

Ilse smiled faintly, a tiny glint in her eyes that no one else would have been able to pick up on. “Don’t flatter yourself. You didn’t have anything close to what I wanted.”

“But I had a chance of it.”

“What’s the point of chances?” she asked, and when she looked up at him, Melchior realised for the first time that she seemed haunted, just as much as he was. “I had a chance to save the person you love and I didn’t.”

Melchior swallowed, the hand that was constantly around his heart tightening. “What do you mean?”

Ilse put the unfinished basket down next to her and sighed. “I was the last person to see him. Didn’t you know that?”

He didn’t. He hadn’t been at the funeral like the others. He hadn’t heard the gossip. Melchior didn’t know what to say.

She pressed her hands together in her lap, and for the first time it seemed like Ilse was going to cry about it, finally unload everything that she’d been feeling in the last few months. “I told him to come home, and that we could play pirates. I knew that he had -” she stopped, her eyes falling to the ground. “He didn’t do a good job of hiding it, the - the gun and he’s … always been a terrible liar.”

Melchior felt sick. Not angry, not pained, just ill to his core.

“I heard it,” she muttered. “I heard everything, but when I ran back it was too -”

_Late_.

Ilse paused and took a deep breath. Melchior could hear the echo of the shot in his mind, could hear footsteps, but he couldn’t imagine what she’d seen, and he really didn’t want to. Just hearing her talk about it was enough. 

“There wasn’t an open casket at the funeral,” she said. “How could there be when he didn’t have a …” she trailed off, her voice giving up at the last minute. The first few tears fell from her eyes and it was finally enough to break Melchior out of whatever stillness he’d found himself in. He quickly moved to her side and pulled Ilse into a hug. 

“I could never be mad at you for that,” he said. “You were the only one who tried.”

She held onto him tighter and Melchior knew what that meant. That she felt she should’ve tried harder, and somehow he knew exactly how she felt. If he’d tried harder, if he’d caught how Moritz was feeling sooner, if he hadn’t been paying so much damn attention to his essay or to Wendla or to anything else around him, then Moritz could still be there with them now. 

The two of them stayed like that for a while, Melchior couldn’t quite tell how long, but eventually Ilse stopped crying again, calming down to what he realised was numbness and not a sense of calm. Neither of them seemed to feel _better_ as a result, still unsettled with the events that had unfolded, but eventually Ilse found the courage to leave. She needed to be alone, to have room to breathe and think and focus on things that weren’t so sour. Melchior gave her one more hug before she gathered up the unfinished basket and headed off. 

It was starting to get late, the sky morphing in colour above them and Melchior knew that he would have to start heading home soon as well. His mother didn’t like him being out late. She didn’t find it to be good form, and he’d rather not disobey her when she was fighting so hard to keep him around. 

“It wasn’t her fault.”

The voice startled him, even if Moritz hadn’t meant for it to. Melchior hadn’t expected him to say anything if he’d been around. “So, you heard all that?” he asked, eyes scanning the treeline until he found Moritz, silhouetted against the bark. 

He stepped forward, stumbling just a little, and it was so much like _him_ to do so that Melchior felt that pang in his chest again, that longing. “I didn’t - I never wanted to hurt her,” he explained. “She wasn’t - I was -,” he stopped, struggling with his words for a moment. “She couldn’t reach me.”

Melchior watched him for a moment, noting that Moritz was clearly distressed by all of this. He was too drained to wonder how that was possible, how Moritz could carry everything with him even beyond the grave.

“I wasn’t hearing her. Not really. I didn’t - I didn’t realise she was trying to save me.”

_Because you didn’t want to be saved_. 

“Moritz, I need to ask you something,” he muttered, already regretting it.

Moritz’s eyes found his, and he nodded. 

He shouldn’t have been asking this, he knew that much, but for some reason it was something that he needed to hear. He needed to _know_ the answer, lock it up inside him and hold it there forever, have it weigh him down with every move he made so he never forgot. “If it had been anyone else if - if it had been me that found you, would you still have -” he broke off, unable to finish the question.

Moritz looked at him for a long moment, before shaking his head. “I would have done whatever you asked me to. For better or - for worse.”

Melchior took a deep breath, letting that confession settle in the air for a moment. “Moritz, it would have been for better. Losing you - was worse.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, I think about Melchior and his strife a lot and I guess it shows. I'm trying to work on some fluffier stuff (and some Updates) for these two boys so I'll see y'all when I get those done!! 
> 
> Until then, you can find me over at [stranger-awakening](http://www.stranger-awakening.tumbr.com) on Tumblr if you wanna chat!! I'm always over there Feeling so drop me a line if you like. Comments, kudos, etc. are appreciated. I love you all.
> 
> (This fic also has a [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0501Ht8PWWHIklfEDEghNL?si=yqOmB1jRSdiFL8y58D5GfQ) if anyone's interested!)


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